that birthed on a bed of irony and grew rapid on the hope of new life, rebirthed, every day, every minute, chanel on one wrist, estee lauder on the other, afterbirth never smelled so sweet. and I havent showered for a day, slept for two, an elephant follows me, pressing into my head and trumpeting.
tinseltown with its heliotrope boxes and bottles, watches and diamonds, goggles and wines, squiggly satin bows and soft yellow mirrors. flashing on the hulking mass of bad decisions, who don't sleep well and wander, looking for manna.
with its constant costume parties feat. wandering zombies all dressed up and waiting, for life to happen. tinseltown that made a destination of the wait, sparkling, addictive, until destiny is but a distant dream, transforming to a journey. The journey, to tinseltown.
tinseltown that became manna. by promising a journey to. logical to the very end, with correct hair and severe black suits, flowy ethnic dresses and mojo boots. they who live in tinseltown have frozen with vigilant smiles, those who pass through, take antifreeze with you.
I used to be just a wanderer when first I found tinseltown, and found manna, for a different reason, one of my last refuges for anonymity, my allowance to wander sightless without reason, without question.
And now after wandering its gardens that stand so still, its passions that wind so thin, I am blued and bored, a little broken and betrayed, by my finest refuge. I am tunnelled through and there is just a tiny trickle of glamour left, my half closed eyes only want sleep and hot water, so I may knit back together and rush back into tinseltown, to compete for the journey, instead of seeking the destination.
the journey is so much easier than thinking about where it leads. tinseltown comes guaranteed, to be its own destination, to lead you true, lead you nowhere. this version of real turns hours and hours away. tinseltown, where life has more meaning, because death don't exist...
but life has no meaning if death don't exist....
tinseltown, kingdom of unconscious irony, far more addictive than it ought to be
these muddy waters
offer a two-toed diagnosis of truth, distasteful and quickly cleaned up, sprayed over with cucumber and a hint of musk
every sentience is doomed to ignore its own breath, stab at immortality, float over the crunch of gravel beneath its feet and form a guilty alliance with itself to hide ugly, gut-wrenching fact
but this world can never be pristine and endless, if our apparition were clear or unreflective, it can never be alive
if we will consider hate as the voluntary about-face from the love dispenser, and worship the necessary up-face toward our own impossible greatness, I no longer know where to look, to believe in anything, my feet have gotten boring
yet if this life flowed on a bedrock downstream, and never looked back, or up, it can never be convincing enough, irony hardly justifies oxygen
no its delusion, the raison'd'etre, keeps us deserving - strapped and alive,
delusion, nature's own pyramid scheme, selling the greatest parodies of truth ever unveiled, the smell of earth on a dismal rain, these perpetual dawns, promises of new islands when the world has failed,
millions and millions of little delusions of insignificance comfortably linked to a vast and irresponsible delusion of grandeur
and the truth? a hysterical joke of course, that may never be spoken without a fake red honker, assuring the world, haha, just kidding, never fear.
pavement in progress
fall fiestas
dressing a feverhead
dried dying, incomparable
making a tiny concrete wish
littered in glorious debris
to believe in you who
today shaded by moonlight
guarded by mist
will see an ill omen
on a dying bejwelled crow
stunning in clarity
mocking on a february
near midnight twenty eight
twenty twenty
and choose
to ignore it, reach for
a promise, a deadly fear
and voilà,
a bridge shall appear
poetry in motion
for the soulfully inclined
ask focus, not design
nor safety nets, nets
are for entrapment, meant
to retire small peaces
that may yet be meaning,
have been will be,
beautiful constructs
free for the free,
invisible to falling plates,
a sky cradle for plates that levitate
by growing gravity, plate by plate
nothing to sneeze at
its no coincidence that
I be pointing to my weapon
constantly
look, how sharp, how ready
to swing, with a back wind
even if it never swang before
its no coincidence that
I spend two hours each day
scraping at a stone
to maintain my pointy edge
its no coincidence that
stuff gets sliced around me
if I let my locus lapse
for even a minute
after all, we are contagious
hatchet hatchet
ashland
spears all on the rising star
moon and mind in flow
a gul picks at the distant land
where embers of bad mistakes glow
digging against the rising tide
before the sun, without cause
hopes a wing will make for flight
or the will wings through the night
picking dust off and around
the darkness in the ashland
until just before the dawn it found
a silent insiduous lighted shell
a secret crystal past, in tune
of things as they were, should be
all embers cool around the gul
the star fades to the rising sun
the gul feasts on the blinding light
tucks a wing and says a prayer
closes its eyes content to see
ashland under crystal reign
until it sleeps
in the grand scheme of things
with a touch of lightness to flame,
imagine if you would, fire floating away
along the crackle of asphalt rain
along the time it took to turn
a hoodie the right way on
with a sketchy understanding of rules
the mask isn’t for the face
look down, stay dry, keep cool, watch out
let soft light glow shadow
the ambient person look
soon will be time to tear it off
to mop the mess real people make
with a touch of darkness to flame
wounds and cinders, cuts and burns
along the course of a chilling rain
life is a creature to be loved
a string of small joys held together
by the course of a day
sandstorm
a cloud of shade
on a bright blue sky
perches on a rim
of metal, stone and potion
salt time and ocean
dissolves in swirls
in years of waves
forge a hammer
fill a sword
if you must
or wait, watch
as long as your heart
ebbs and flows
it crumbles to the beat
of tapping fingers
now and again
changes, sparkles to the sun
little crystal gold that burns
twist and turns
shifts like sawdust rain
feels blades and tears
it tilts when you add your hand
glides on wings
slips on rain
falls on gravity
weakens without a marksman
in a dark green mist of pine
nearby, far below away
dissolves with a linger
leaves with no sound
pours around
little perfect unbroken shells
some creature died protecting
collects in the sand
creates small havens
of even edged grainflakes
to be seized by the sea
returned some other day
on a whim
its a downpour of music
silence before, after
stays forever
the poltergeist
he had an identity crisis. she was too transparent, often searching for a meaning. or even just a nice prop. it really needed a pastel wall to lean against, to bring some tasteful color into her essence. he wanted to be loud and brash and wander in the hallways,
she wanted to eat a sandwich. he ought to get a painting. who needs a painting in pastel more than a poltergeist I ask you? wordsworth? monet? it decided to go to an auction, she hissed along heated car engines and whiffled down the street ebbing away from passing cars, it sung songs out of each fire hydrant and he shot out like multiple genies from every lamp it saw, stifling a cry of disgust at the lack of proper fire to silhoutte her.
it whittled dangerously solid around a piece of discarded paper on the road, advertising, well what do you know, an auction! she ruffled the scrap into a garbage bin as a cat yowled at it her tail sticking out all spiky. poltergeists love cats, they are validation.
she had to find the place, numbers and street names do not an auction make. he whistled down a street, floated up another, number and street never matched, her memory was failing too. cmon, it was a POLTERGEIST, where would he keep a neuron?
her holes widened as a cyclist cut through carelessly, and it hissed behind quite certain the helmet led to the auction. sometimes these poltergeist instincks can be powerful and disturbingly arcane. the cyclist was drunk. who cycles drunk, isn't that an oxymoron? or a regular moron. the poltergeist could smell the spirit, haha. but the cyclist couldn't, haha.
a dog watched the poltergeist go sailing smiling with a dripping tongue. or was it the cyclist, dogs can be so damn cryptic. and the auction house appeared behind the dog, or was it always there. the poltergeist was big on existential dilemmas. she hopped off the cyclist's tyre where he had been making like smoke and making the world feel guilty and puzzled at the same time.
the big german shepherd cocked his right ear, but the poltergeist didnt make sounds, ether didn't run into things. the pooch who prided his ears felt an instant lowering of self-esteem and nose together, as the poltergeist swept past grandly to the entrance of the auction, piggybacking on a breeze that hoped to be a storm someday
as he entered the grand sweeping auction hall under the door, she realized it wasn't caspar the friendly as he had thought so far, but a far more sinister piece with less noises and visibility, and more sinisterhood. he felt a thousand eyes staring at her, before it realized they were all just people who had no control on their ocular nerves, they didnt really see anything.
it saw the auctioneer's table, such a fat man with oily antonio banderas hair, and no other signs. it searched, the latest bid was on a hat made of vegetable, capsicum, pastel yellow, that was perfect except it was a hat, it was decomposing, and it was edible, if you ate hats. the poltergeist decided against the hat, it was heavy and stuck out and didn't really frame her without poking into the middle of his ether with a carrot feather.
takes more than one indecisive poltergeist to disrupt a silent auction, no one felt the atmosphere change, the pressure shift, the gas erupt. no wait, that everyone noticed. the poltergeist rushed madly around the room protesting, wasnt me. could have been easily though, gas begets gas, as the old saying goes.
the poltergeist watched the pastels for the right one, to silhouette it. or perhaps just be her on days he didnt feel like being it. the suspense ...
Posts
